


Together from Helgen

by MsSatan



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Character Development, F/M, Gen, Injury, Love Triangles, Maybe - Freeform, Pining, Romantic Friendship, Skyrim Civil War, Tension, Uneasy Allies, Unlikely Hero
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 05:44:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10633461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsSatan/pseuds/MsSatan
Summary: Disorientated, injured and lost, Amale wakes up in a cart. Surrounded by unfamiliar faces, she rides to the headman's block. Accepting that her life is now over, Amale prepares to die. However, it seems the divines have plans for her yet...along with Hadvar and Ralof.





	

“ _Hey you, you’re finally awake._ ” __  
The stranger’s voice felt very far away. Amale could taste blood, and dirt. It was sour and bitter in her throat. A deep, aching throbbing was consistently bursting through her skull and down her neck. She was becoming increasingly aware of the rough rocking and bouncing of her seat. With no idea where she is, or why, or how she got there, she swallows bile and fear. With an immense effort, and a few tries, she manages to peel her eyes open. Hazy morning sunlight bursts into existence. Amale winces into it, her aching head protesting violently. As the initial blur begins to subside, she realises she is not alone. An unfamiliar blond nord, a braid in his hair, peers at her with concern. No doubt the voice from before belongs to him. A man sat beside him too, with ratty brown hair and filthy clothes. Instead of concern, this man wore the expression of horror and fear. Amale hoped she didn’t look _that_ bad. And finally, the unmistakable warmth and presence of a third person, sat directly beside her. Not having the willpower or the ability to look at them, they remained anonymous for now.

“You were trying to cross the border, right?” the braided nord spoke again, addressing Amale. “Walked right into that Imperial ambush?”  
For a moment, the confused Breton hesitates. _Imperial ambush_? Her mind churns, each thought flowing like bread dough. It hurt to think and it hurt even more to remember. A vague recollection of walking one moment, the next a flash of swords and panic and then… nothing. Returning her attention back to the man speaking to her, she manages a single, painful nod.  
“Same as us. And that thief over there.” he growls, nodding at the ratty man sat beside him.  
“Damn you Stormcloaks!” He retorts bitterly, “Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy.” Amale gripped the edge of her seat, now realising that they were riding in a cart somewhere. Despite her pain, she finds herself looking around in a panic. Nothing is familiar. All she can see are trees, rocks and the soldier driving the carriage. Feeling more violently ill than ever, she slides across in her seat and bumps into the person sat beside her.

The huge man turns his head to lock his gaze on hers, a thick, uncomfortable looking cloth tied tightly across his mouth, gagging him. The two share a long, wordless look with each other. Amale’s wide, frightened green eyes meeting calm, sturdy hazel. Swallowing her panic, Amale looks away.  
“I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell.” the thief continues, angrily. “You there, you and me, we shouldn’t be here. It’s these Stormcloaks the empire wants.”  
_Stormcloaks_? She wanted to ask, but knew words would fail her. Her teeth were clenched hard, trying to bite back the agony and the vomit in her throat. She prayed to the eight that the cart would stop soon.  
“We’re all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief.” the first man speaks again. Amale looks down, noticing for the first time that her hands are indeed, bound together as one.  
“Shut up back there!” the driver barks back at them, making them all glance at him unkindly.

Understanding of the situation slowly begins to dawn on the Breton. The Empire wants the Stormcloaks, whatever they are, and two of the men in the carriage seem to be Stormcloaks… and their hands are bound. So that means… they’re prisoners. A new, far more violent wave of fear bursts through her. It tears all shred of pain clear from her, blinded by the sheer panic. Her whole body quakes as she wildly snaps her head around, staring at the road below them. Tears prickle in her eyes, threatening to streak down her cheeks. Not wanting to appear weak, she buries her teeth into her lip and focuses on calming down.  
“What’s wrong with him, huh?” the thief’s voice quips again, thankfully drawing attention away from Amale.  
“Watch your tongue!” the nord barks back, “You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!”  
_High King_? More questions burn into her mind as she looks at the gagged man again. She almost leaps out of her seat when she sees his eyes still boring into her. Her eyes dance away from his, peering down at her worn shoes instead.  
“Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? ... You’re the leader of the rebellion!” the edge of panic slowly begins to rise in his throat, higher and higher with each new word. “If they’ve captured you… Oh gods, where are they taking us?!”  
Amale closed her eyes, feeling exactly the same as he does.  
“I don’t know where we’re going… but Sovngarde awaits.” as the words register in Amale’s mind, she swirls back into the darkness again.

“I used to be sweet on a girl from here.” A voice pours into her ears again, pulling her back to the real world. “I wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in.”  
She raises her head, which had been pressed uncomfortably into the wooden rim of the carriage. Consciousness begins to flood back into her, as the Nord continues;  
“Funny. When I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe.”  
Amale gazes at him, half awake and filled with pity. Even though she didn’t know his name, he seemed so genuine and honest that she found she liked him. It was somehow a comfort.  
“Who are they, Daddy? Where are they going?” A young boy’s voice dances into her ears, making her look around. Gone were the trees and rocks from before, now replaced by houses and solid walls, and more soldiers. Amale watches with fearful eyes as the boy is coaxed into his home by his father, lovingly hidden away from the world's horrors.  
“Why are we stopping?” The thief asks, looking panic stricken.  
“Why do you think?” the nord responds flatly, suddenly solemn. “End of the line.”

The cart shudders to a deafening halt. The driver clambers off his seat instantly, jumping down onto the stone with a meaty, metallic thunk. He sweeps to tend to the horse that had carried them all here. Meanwhile, Amale and the thief glance around in unison, looking upon their fate with unwilling hearts. As she does this, her eyes meet that of Ulfric Stormcloak’s again, and they linger.  
“Let’s go. Shouldn’t keep the Gods waiting for us.” At the braided man’s words, all four of them rise to their feet in unison, as if all some rehearsed play. The Breton thought back on her life, of her humble homestead far away and her brother, the one who would get the news. Tears prickled in her eyes, the eyes of a sister he would never see again.  
The frightened cries and pleas of the ragged man bounce of Amale’s ears, failing to register. Her mind swarms with regret. If only she had left a day later. If only she had stayed on the road. If only she wasn’t about to die.

The step down from the cart made her frozen legs burn. She stumbled, but managed to steady herself so she wouldn’t fall on her face. She wished to die with some honour at least, not looking like a terrified kitten. Her last moments, surrounded by strangers, had to be worthy of her. She stepped in line behind Ulfric, gazing past him at the two soldiers in front of them. One was a nord man, the opposite of the one from the carriage. He had dark hair and tanned skin, a far more regimented appearance. There was a woman beside him, an imperial by the looks of her. The man looked at his list, and called Ulfric off.  
“It has been an honour, Jarl Ulfric.” the blond nord, stood beside Amale, spoke as Ulfric walked away. Next, the soldier called off Ralof from Riverwood, which was the name belonging to the braided nord. Obediently, Ralof followed Ulfric, leaving Amale alone with the thief. She swallowed nervously, and stepped forward, filling the gap Ulfric had left.  
“Lokir of Rorikstead.” listed the nord soldier, and the thief responded.  
“No! I’m not a rebel! You can’t do this!” He yelled, and without a second's hesitation, he sprinted straight for the gates.  
“Halt!!” the Imperial woman roared after him, looking at a group of idle soldiers nearby, “Archers!”

Amale’s jaw dropped open. She gaped in horror as the soldiers raised their bows, nocked their arrows and aimed at Lokir. Some form of a strangled cry erupted from her throat - a warning or a plea for mercy, she couldn’t discern - but it did nothing. Three arrows sliced through the air, the distinct wizzing sound ringing in the silence. A sickening pair of thunks echoed as two arrows met their mark. It looked as though Lokir ran two more steps, before he fell flat on his face, unmoving. He was undeniably dead. Putrid, hot bile rose in Amale’s throat, scalding her insides. She tore her eyes from his corpse, wishing to pretend it never happened.  
“Anyone else feel like running?” the Imperial addressed the waiting prisoners, a harsh tone in her commanding voice. Nobody answered.  
“Wait…” the nord Soldier beside her suddenly spoke, staring at Amale. “You there, step forward.”  
She hesitated, unsure as to why he hadn’t called off her name like everybody else. Then she remembered. She had been unconscious the entire time they had been in captivity, only now had she awoken.  
Obediently, she moved closer to him.

“Who… are you?” he questioned. It took Amale a long moment to reply. There was so much she could say here. She could talk about her family, eons away on the border of Cyrodiil and Blackmarsh. She could tell him how she used to chase her brother across the border, saying she chased him out of the country. Perhaps she could explain how she dreamed of being an alchemist once, fancying herself a great inventor. Tell him of her reasons for coming to Skyrim, a land so unlike her own. Or she could even explain her love for music and song. Instead, all she managed was her own name, for in this case, that was all the truly mattered. She was going to die either way.  
“Amale Monchad.”  
“You from Daggerfall?” he asks her, the sound of mournful pity in his voice, “Fleeing some court intrigue?”  
Amale considers how to answer him, but is cut off by the Imperial woman clearing her throat.  
“Captain,” the soldier continues, looking at her questioningly, “what should we do? She’s not on the list.”  
“Forget the list!” the woman barks coldly, “She goes to the block.”  
“By your orders, Captain.” He turns back to Amale, an apologetic frown on his lips. “I’m sorry, We’ll make sure your remains are returned to High Rock. Follow the Captain.”  
The Breton offers him a thankful nod, moving to follow the Imperial woman as she walks towards the rest of the prisoners, already sorted and ready for execution.  
“Cyrodiil.” Amale corrects the Nord soldier. “Near Blackmarsh.” He nods, understanding, and scrawls a small note on his list.

Slowly and surely, they make their way to the crowd and stand in line. Amale takes the time to look at the faces of her fellows, all of which wearing the same armour; a chainmail cuirass, topped by leather and a strip of blue cloth marking their allegiance. All except Ulfric Stormcloak, wearing heavy furs and armour, fit for an Emperor. He stands in front of a shorter man, clad in gold trimmed imperial armour and a cut of graying hair atop his head. Clearly the commander of the imperial forces, Amale assumed. He was mid-conversation, addressing Ulfric.  
“You started this war! Plunged Skyrim into chaos! And now, the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace!”  
As he spoke, suddenly the strangest sound anyone had ever heard, seem to erupt from the heavens themselves. Every single person in the crowd, looked skyward. Nothing but clear blue awaited them there. As they had travelled, a beautiful day had dawned without anyone noticing. Or it would have been beautiful, if it was not Amale’s last.  
“What was that?” Someone asked, breaking the stunned silence.  
“Nothing.” The commander replied, turning his gaze away from the sky. “Carry on.”  
“Yes, General Tullius!” The Captain barked loudly.

Amale did not look away from the sky. She wanted her last view to be of it. The sun had risen for her, it had come to give her one final goodbye. At least she would not die alone, in some unfathomable wilderness, her body left undiscovered. Her brother would be waiting for her at home for years, unaware she would never come home. At least with this death, he would know.  
A priestess began to read them their last rights, blessing them into their afterlife. Amale’s gaze was torn from the sky as the priestess was interrupted.  
“For the love of Talos! Shut up and let’s get this over with!” Growled an impatient Stormcloak, already walking forward to the headsman’s block.  
“As you wish.” snapped the priestess, falling silent at once. Amale looked away as the man stopped in front of the block, a soldier approaching to push him down onto it.  
“Come on!! I haven’t got all morning!” The stormcloak snapped again. If that was how he wished to go out, Amale applauded him. She hoped that on the other side, he may go somewhere worthy of him. As she gazed at the sky, her thoughts turned to the divines. Years of caring little for them had finally paid off. The Breton doubted anywhere special was waiting for her in the afterlife.

The disgusting, undeniable sound of an axe smashing through the soldier’s neck tears her from her prayers. Her eyes squeeze shut tightly, vomit once again searing her throat. She could not bear to look. The sight itself may simply drive her insane. Anguished yells came from the Stormcloaks, and retorts from the Imperials. Suddenly, she felt Lokir’s fate far more inviting than her own. Was it too late to flee? Perhaps she could escape while the Imperials were focused on their next victim.  
“As fearless in death, as he was in life.” Ralof spoke, mere inches away from Amale. Something about his words made her feel bad about wanting to run. She should face her fate bravely, as her Father had. She would see him soon.  
“Next, the Breton!” Cried the Captain. Amale’s eyes shot open, meeting Ralof’s eyes with accidental panic. Ralof offers her a reassuring smile, which made her feel yet more hopeless. Then all at once, the peculiar sound bursts from the heavens again, making several people jump. All their gazes cast skyward, blood draining from some of their faces.

“There it is again!” says the kindly nord soldier from the listing. “Did you hear that?”  
“I said, Next. Prisoner.” growls the captain, glaring at the soldier.  
“To the block, Amale. Nice and easy.” he commands, regret on his lips. Amale moves forward, each step driving her closer and closer to her fate. Sickeningly, she spies the decapitated corpse of the impatient stormcloak, lying directly beside the block. His head sits separately in a small wooden crate in front of the block, only recognisable by a shock of ginger hair. Disgust fills her. As she reaches the block, the kindly soldier stands directly in front of her - and their eyes meet. She could almost hear his apology, when a soldier pushed her painfully to her knees. Not wanting to be face to face with the dead Stormcloak, Amale turned her head to the side, facing the executioner. Not wanting to meet his eye, she gazes blindly past him, and up into the vivid blue of the sky.  
A strange, midnight black bird like creature suddenly appears in her view, flapping unbelievably gigantic wings. For a split second, Amale believe him a harbinger of death, come to greet her into the afterlife, when someone nearby yells;

“What in Oblivion is that?!”


End file.
